


CRUISIN' FOR A BRUISIN'

by northmans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cruise, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shameless-typical warnings for things that happen in the show, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northmans/pseuds/northmans
Summary: It wasn't Ian's idea to enter into the competition.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea sunk it's teeth into my brain and wouldn't let go until it was done. Shout out to my soon-to-be-wife, bekans, for not only listening to me ramble on about this for weeks on end, but for agreeing to beta it for me. And, y'know. Being the best partner a gal like me could have ever dreamed of. <3

It wasn't Ian's idea to enter into the competition.

If he has to choose, he blames it all on Lip. Apparently Amanda's parents knew a guy who ran events and competitions for _'Pride at Sea'_, the premier Miami-based gay cruise company, and Lip just happened to be in the right place at the right time. That, and giving the tickets to Amanda's Shitty Boyfriend's Ratbag Brother seemed to piss her parents right off. It was a win-win for everyone. At least, that's what Lip tells Ian one morning over a cold bowl of store-brand cheerios at the Gallagher house.

“Apparently the cruise is pretty cool," Lip says through a spoonful. 

Ian stares at Lip like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. He studies the small envelope in his hand, flipping it over. It's covered in tiny rainbow flags, and the tickets inside are printed just the same. Two tickets, and two accompanying free booze and free food package tokens for the duration of the week-long cruise. Ian shakes the plastic tokens out into his hand.

“They're meant to attach to a lanyard or some shit," Lip supplies helpfully, and Ian's eyebrows arch. 

Ian slides them back into the envelope and sets them down on the counter. “So," he says slowly. “What's the catch?"

“Catch?" Lip replies smoothly, and if Ian didn't know his brother any better, he'd say that there was an air of forced innocence about it.

“Yeah," Ian says. Lip finishes chewing and sets his bowl down on the bench beside them.

“Okay," he says, because Ian _knew_ it, _knew_ there'd be something about this whole shady situation. Who the fuck gets free tickets to a _cruise_. “There might be a bit of a catch."

Ian narrows his eyes.

“But it's not that bad," Lip presses on. “The guy asked if you were seeing anyone, because apparently it's meant to be marketed as a romantic couples getaway or some shit, and it didn't sound like he was going to give me the tickets unless you had someone to go with, so I might have lied a bit and said that you had a boyfriend?"

Ian groans loudly. 

Lip snorts. “Yeah, he said they might interview you for their website or something, but it's free booze and free food for a week cruising around the Bahamas. Chin up, man. I'm sure you'll find someone to go with."

And with that, Lip dumps his bowl into the sink, swings his bag over his shoulder, and leaves Ian with a parting clap on the shoulder. 

Ian braces himself on the bench, rainbow envelope staring up at him. Sure, free food and booze for a whole week sounds fucking amazing, but who the fuck was he meant to convince to come with him? Let alone be a stand-in _boyfriend_? Lip had gotten him the tickets, so that was right out, despite the fact that they were brothers. And even if Ian could back-out on the boyfriend part of the deal and take one of his siblings, Carl and Liam were way too young to go, anyway.

There is one person that comes to Ian's mind. He thinks about black hair and blue eyes and immediately feels his stomach plunge into a tense ball of awkwardness. What would he even say? Hey, Mickey, I know you're not gay, and even though I've been crushing on you ever since you pissed on first base in Little League, wanna come on a week-long romantic cruise with me? Please don't knock my front teeth out at the mere suggestion of it?

If he works the angle right, Ian thinks he may be able to convince Mickey on the free booze and free food front, but he knows he's going to have to come up with something really good if he actually wants to sell him on it.

Ian's phone buzzes in his pocket.

** _Forgot to mention flight leaves Saturday morning. Booked for Mr. & Mr. Gallager. Good luck!_ **

Ian flips Lip off through emoji.

\-----

Ian walks past the Milkovich house no less than six times that afternoon. He'd spent the good part of the morning on the family laptop, looking up the cruise company. Part of him wondered if he should even bother with the free tickets - they were free, so no harm done if he didn't use them, right? But the more he found out about the _Pride at Sea_, the more he wanted to go. It seemed pretty awesome: all-you-can-eat-buffets, free entertainment, party nights, half a dozen different bars, and that was only the stuff on board. Apparently they would be going island hopping as well. Ian had never been that far down south before.

Steeling himself, Ian takes a long breath. He pushes past the front gate and takes the stairs two at a time. He can do this. 

Ian raps his knuckles against the door and waits.

Silence.

Ian wonders if anyone's home. He knows the door is unlocked - the Milkovich house always is. Nobody's stupid enough to enter uninvited, not unless they like their kneecaps broken in six different places.

Ian knocks again. The door yanks open as he goes to knock for a third time.

“The fuck do you want?" Mickey grunts by way of greeting. He looks as though he's just woken up.

“Oh," Mickey continues, dumbly. “It's you. What's up, Gallagher."

Mickey's wearing a grey tank top, yellowed round the edges from years of avoiding a washing machine, and a black checkered flannelette cut off at the shoulders. It's one of Ian's favourite looks on Mickey, he's almost loathed to say. 

“Can I come in? I, uh, need to ask you something."

“What, you ain't heard of using a fucking phone before?" Mickey scoffs, but there's no real venom behind it. He steps back, leaving the door open enough for Ian to step through.

Mickey beelines straight for the fridge, and Ian follows, dodging around the empty beer bottles lying on the floor. Seemingly less than usual, Ian notes, but he mostly puts that down to the fact that Terry's back in jail.

Mickey bends over to pick out two beers from the bottom shelf of the fridge. Swallowing loudly, Ian wonders for the briefest of moments if he should even go ahead with the idea, but Mickey throws a bottle to Ian, and twists the top off his own, and the thought passes. He's here now, may as well follow through. Mickey slams the fridge door shut with his foot.

“Was thinkin' 'bout calling you, anyways," Mickey says with a grin. He brings the bottle up to his full lips, and Ian tries not to stare too hard. “Was looking for an easy win in _Mario Kart_."

Ian lets out a strangled, hoarse laugh, and the sound takes both him and Mickey off guard. Mickey gives him a look, before taking a mouthful of drink.

“Well? The fuck did you want to talk to me about? You're acting kind of weird, man."

Ian lets out a sharp breath.

Well, here goes nothing.

“I won two free tickets to a cruise and want you to come with."

Mickey stares at him like he's just sprouted a second head from his neck.

“Well," he retorts flatly, “that was the last fuckin' thing I ever expected you to say."

Ian shrugs, slightly panicked, trying to act like it's no big deal. “Lip won some tickets and gave them to me. It leaves on Saturday. It's all expenses paid, flights to Miami, everything-,"

“So take your fuckin' brother, I don't give a shit," Mickey says.

“Lip's already told them that he's not going, Mick," Ian replies. He takes the overwhelming awkwardness he feels as an opportunity to take a long pull from his drink.

“So? Take one of your other siblings or something, you've got enough of them," Mickey snaps. He pushes past Ian into the lounge room and flops down onto the couch. Ian moves to catch up, taking a seat on a chair opposite. He sets his beer down on the excuse of a coffee table between them. It's not that Ian is avoiding telling Mickey it's a gay cruise, per say, but he knows that if he opens with it, it's going to be a flat-out no. And deep down, Ian kind of wants to go on this thing. 

He opts for a different tactic. “Just think about it, okay, Mickey? It's all you can eat free food, free booze, and island hopping down in the Bahamas for a whole week."

Mickey hesitates as he brings his beer up to his lips.

“Free booze," he says. It's not a question. 

Ian nods. “As much as you can drink."

“And you want to take me, why?"

Because of course Mickey would be suspicious. Nothing good in life comes free, not for them. Ian shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “'Cause I do." It's a lame reply, and Mickey knows it, narrowing his eyes, but he takes a long swig and waits in silence for Ian to come up with something better.

Ian sighs, trying to work out - quickly - how best to approach it. “I can't go on this thing unless I bring someone, and I really want to go." It's a half-truth, sure, but it's a whole lot better than the whole truth.

“There's something you're not telling me about this," Mickey challenges, meeting Ian's eye. There's a glint there that Ian recognizes, and as much as Ian is loathed to say anything, he just knows Mickey won't budge unless Ian comes clean. Stubborn asshole.

“Fine, if you're gonna make me say it," he huffs. “Jackass." He snatches his drink off the table and takes a long drink, trying to quell the nervousness he feels in his stomach. He may as well have liquid courage for this. 

“The only reason the tickets are free is because it's meant to be a romantic couples getaway, and if I don't bring a significant other, they won't let me go."

The glare Mickey gives Ian says it all. “What the fuck, Gallagher!" he yells.

“I know, I know -,"

Mickey pushes off the couch and stalks off towards his bedroom. Ian hastily follows, trying not to trip on the bottles on the ground between them, heart pounding hard against his rib-cage as he runs after Mickey - shit, shit shit shit, _shit_. 

“Free alcohol, Mickey!" Ian reminds him, but it's too late. Mickey slams the door in Ian's face, the '_Stay The Fuck Out_', sign now greeting Ian's line of sight. 

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

One chance. It's now or never.

Time to play the ace.

“Just think, Mickey," he says coolly, hoping Mickey can hear him behind the door. “All those rich people, too fuckin' drunk to know or care if any of their shit goes missing. Just think about it. We could make a fucking _fortune_."

It's the best he's got.

He hears nothing from the other side of the door.

The door opens a fraction. An exasperated sigh.

“Don't make me regret this, Gallagher."

\-----

They get to the airport first thing on Saturday morning. Lip's the one who drives them in. Whether he's keen to see his brother off on the trip of a lifetime or see how bad the trainwreck of pretending to date Mickey Milkovich is going to be, Ian can't quite tell. Lip's known about Ian's thing for Mickey almost as long as Ian had known it himself. Besides, Ian couldn't keep a secret like that from Lip. Well, he could - but he doesn't want to.

Lip keeps glancing over at Ian during the ride over, half-suppressing a laugh, as if he can't believe what's about to unfold. Sure, Mickey may not be the best actor Ian's ever known - it's hard when you have the emotional range of a potato - but at least he knows Mickey will do anything for free beer. Well, almost anything.

Lip doesn't know Mickey like Ian knows him. They hadn't really spent a lot of time together. Sure, the two of them had shared the same room for a time, thanks to one of Terry's drunken stunts, but there wasn't much to it: Mickey had arrived on the Gallagher doorstep with a split lip, blood covering his eyes and mouth, and had camped out on the floor next to Ian's bed until probation and parole caught up with the bastard. 

Ian and Mickey, on the other hand, had had each other's sixes since they first learned how to throw a punch. It was more of an unspoken thing, really; Mickey fucking hated talking about all that emotional shit. When Ian had come out - and that was the thing about coming out. It wasn't one big fanfare and that was it: suddenly you're out and proud for life. No. It was a lifelong sentencing if you wanted to be truly free. Coming out as gay as a bug-eyed, gangly teenager in the South Side of Chicago went about as smoothly as swallowing gravel, but Mickey had never let Ian get into any fights about it alone.

_“Liking what you like don't make you a bitch,"_ was all that Mickey had said on the subject after some fuckin' sophomore asshole had beat down on Ian after school. He'd flexed his knuckles, out of breath, watching as the piece of shit scarpered off down the block and round the corner. Mickey had shaken off the blood that trailed down the back of his hand, and that had been that on that. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ian can see Lip struggling to keep his mouth shut. Ian struggles not to punch him in the arm. 

They pull up at the departure drop-off. Lip lets the engine idle as they scramble out of the car and get their bags out of the boot.

“Well," Lip starts, his eyes flickering back and forth between Ian and Mickey. “Have fun, be _safe_, try not to get into too much trouble."

It's relatively harmless, and Ian's surprised that Lip's actually managed to contain himself. Shaking his head, Ian pulls forward to give his brother a quick hug. Giving Lip's shoulder a squeeze, he hopes that Lip knows how thankful he is for setting this up. Free shit doesn't come around often, especially not for anyone in their family, and even though there were strings attached to the whole thing, it seems like a small price to pay to get drunk for free on a boat for a week.

As Lip goes to climb back into the drivers side, he stops, backtracking around the side of the car. “Oh, I forgot," he says as he digs into his pocket. Pulling out his wallet, he unfolds a fat wad of cash and hands it over to Ian.

Ian stares down at it, then, at Lip. What?

“For condoms and shit," Lip explains. “From Amanda. Says that you never know who you'll meet on a cruise." He gives Ian a wink, before laughing and climbing back into the car. Ian presses his lips into a hard line, clutching at the wad of cash now in his possession. For condoms and shit? Lip's such an asshole.

Ian's still standing on the curb as Lip drives away, staring after the car long after it's gone.

“Ay, snap out of it, Gallagher," Mickey says after a moment. Ian can see him staring at the money. Ian shoves it hastily in his own wallet and picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Well that was fuckin' weird," Mickey says by way of prompting Ian for an explanation, but Ian doesn't give one. 

The terminal feels like an ant's nest. There are lines crawling every which way for a dozen different airline companies, people running late, roller bags in tow. It takes a second for Ian to locate the right airline, but they manage to successfully dodge around a school-trip group to get to the self-service check-in machine.

Ian punches in his details and finds the two tickets under his name: _Mr. & Mr. Gallagher._

“Mr. Gallagher?" Mickey says with an arch of his eyebrows, eyes boring into Ian. Ian feels kind of hot under Mickey's gaze.

What he wants to say is, _sounds good on you, Mick_, but instead, he opts for the safer option of, “Yeah, I guess they didn't know how to spell the clusterfuck of letters you use as a last name."

The look Mickey gives him says that if they weren't standing in an airport with three security guards nearby, Ian probably would have been deservedly punched.

\-----

Mickey doesn't fly so well, Ian finds out.

Takeoff is the worst. Mickey's knuckles go white as he clutches the armrests either side of him.

Not that Ian can really blame him, it's not like either of them have ever been on a plane before. Ian doesn't feel so crash hot himself, but he can't help but laugh as the plane steadies itself in the air and Mickey practically has to break a tattooed finger to get out of the vice-like grip. 

“Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll knock your fuckin' teeth out," Mickey says through a clenched jaw, which only makes Ian laugh harder. 

“Yeah, alright, Mickey."

The smile that peeks through Mickey's mean exterior betrays him.

\-----

Using the money that Lip had given them, Ian orders cans of beer for both of them as the stewardess makes her way down the aisle with the drink cart in tow.

He offers the side of his can to Mickey in faux cheers.

“Here's to free stuff," Ian says, and Mickey grins, tapping the side of his can against Ian's before taking a big swig.

“Yeah," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, thanks for bringing me, I guess."

There's a warm feeling that pools in Ian's stomach. It's probably the only time Ian's ever heard the word come out of Mickey's mouth.

And knowing Mickey, it's probably the last.

\-----

Ian lied.

Takeoff wasn't the worst.

The descent is some next-level terrifying bullshit. Even his own stomach starts to churn as the plane sways from side to side, coming in hot, bumping up and then down and then up and down again against the tarmac, braking at a million miles an hour --

“Holy motherfucking shit," Mickey breathes, white as a ghost, clutching the armrests with renewed force. Instinctively, Ian reaches out to put a steadying hand on Mickey's shoulder, but comes to his senses once Mickey shoots him a look. Slowly, the plane rumbles to a slow ride, trundling along towards the terminal.

Once inside and reunited with their bags, Ian manages to hail down the shuttle bus that will take them to the cruise ship terminal. Packed on board with twelve other strangers, Ian and Mickey manage to grab seats at the back of the bus near the window, and it's not long before they're drinking in the sunny displays of cars, bars, and all the glamour that the sweltering tropics of Miami has to offer.

It's amazingly different to the plain greys of Chicago. Ian has seen movies and shows about Miami, but nothing quite prepared him for just how many fucking palm trees there are. Every way he looks, lining every road like a runway, it's just as picturesque as he'd imagined. 

“This is fucking cool," Mickey says with a grin, and Ian can't help but grin back.

The bus takes them in a beeline straight for the water. The terminal is just across the bay, but easy enough to spot thanks to the massive eight-story cruise ship parked out front. Ian can't help but go slack-jawed at the impressive size of the thing.

As the bus pulls up out front, Ian and Mickey pick up their bags and head towards the sleek looking building. It's just like the airport terminal, only smaller, single-story and a thousand times more relaxed. The vibe here is definitely cruise-ready, with cheery groups of vacationers surrounding them at every turn. Ian's skin starts to tingle. He can't help but feel kind-of excited by it all. They join the queue to drop their bags off and then head inside.

Ian hands over their passports, tickets, and tokens when he gets to the next available desk. The young curly-haired brunette man behind the table is overly polite and talkative, excited to for Ian and Mickey to have the best trip of their _lives_. He takes their (fake) IDs with ease (_“Gotta be over twenty-one," Ian had reminded Mickey as he'd handed over the forgery. Mickey had tapped his nose like he was in the know._) and in return gives the boys their lanyards and _'Welcome Aboard!'_ paperwork. 

“So, the cards attached to your lanyards here are what you'll use instead of currency," the curly haired man explains. Ian puts his around his neck. Mickey stares down at his in disgust before pocketing it. “It also works as door keys, and your food and drink tokens."

Ian thanks him for his help and picks up the paperwork package. Together, they find two empty chairs at the end of a row down the way. It's far away enough that they're not in the midst of the bigger groups of cruise-goers. There's a gathering of men three rows down, all dressed in various loud Hawai'ian shirts and khaki pants. They look like they're on some kind of bucks night-turned-tour. Ian catches Mickey staring at them.

“What?" Mickey says, defensive. Ian raises his brows. “I like their shirts," Mickey mutters, and Ian can't suppress his smile.

They plonk their carry-on bags on the floor before taking seats next to each other. Ian rubs the heel of his hand against his eye sockets, wondering if the bags under his eyes look as dull and sunken as they feel. The past twenty-four hours are starting to catch up with him. He'd barely slept, his mind running marathons on every way this whole trip could possibly go wrong. How would he get back to Chicago if the cruise line found out the truth about him and Mickey? What if they decided to dump him at a random port somewhere? Worst of all, what if Mickey somehow found out how _much_ Ian liked him? Or how _long_ Ian had liked him for? Or how many times Ian had _jerked off thinking about him while in the shower_? Ian would rather jump off the side of the ship. He'd stared at his phone for hours, half-tempted to text Mickey to call the whole thing off. But, rational thought had prevailed, and sleep had settled in eventually. A week with Mickey all to himself kind of sounded like bliss.

“There's a lot of fuckin' dudes here," Mickey says, breaking Ian out of his thought. He shifts in his chair, twisting around to see the back half of the room.

The ball of anxiety settles back into the pit of Ian's stomach.

Fuck.

He was going to tell Mickey on the flight. He swears, honestly, it's not like he's been trying to pull the wool over Mickey's eyes about the whole thing. Sure, a part of him was afraid that Mickey would back the fuck out of the whole thing if he knew, but truly, it just never came up. Honestly.

“Like, it's all dudes," Mickey continues. His brows have knitted together in confusion, and a small part of Ian just wants to lean over and smooth the crease out. Instead, he purposefully stares down at his lap and absentmindedly pulls at a dead bit of skin near his thumbnail. If he acts dumb enough, Mickey might drop it.

“Don't you think that's weird?" Mickey asks.

Ian pointedly does not make eye contact.

“Ian?"

Ian watches as Mickey's face contorts into something of disbelief. “Aw, Christ, they're making out," he huffs, and Ian knows exactly the couple he's talking about.

Ian knows he's fucked up. Mickey was inevitably going to find out at some point, and the guilt of omission fills Ian up to the brim. He meant to tell Mickey earlier, he really did. But, the stupidest, smallest part of him wanted them to be on the boat and halfway out to sea before it even came up.

“It's a gay cruise, Mick," Ian says quietly.

Mickey's eyes snap straight to Ian's face.

“A gay cruise," Mickey repeats after a beat. “And you didn't think to tell me that, huh?"

Ian shifts his gaze, meeting the ferocious blaze of Mickey's blues.

“Sorry," is all Ian offers, at first. Mickey stares him down, and Ian feels like shit.

“It's just," he continues, breathy, “I was afraid you wouldn't come if I told you."

Mickey huffs, folds his arms close to his chest, flares his nostrils.

Ian feels bad - really, he does. If the situation were reversed, he'd sure as hell be pissed off. He probably would try and find a way back to Chicago even if he had to crawl. He wonders if Mickey is going to get up and leave. Maybe. Maybe not. He winces.

Ian shifts towards him, apologetic. “Look, I'll make it up to you. Whatever you want."

Mickey's eyes flick towards him.

“I promise," Ian says. And he means it.

The air of restlessness surrounding Mickey stills after a moment, and the black haired boy lets out a long sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You fuckin' better, Gallagher. You owe me big time."

Ian can't help it if his face lights up like it's fucking Christmas.

\-----

They watch the couple make out for at least twenty more minutes before their boarding group number is called. Ian wonders if they're ever going to come up for air.

“Thank fucking Christ," Mickey breathes as the call comes over the speakers, voicing the relief that Ian feels. 

They pick their bags up and join the back of the amassing crowd at the rear of the terminal. The walls start to narrow, morphing into a floor-to-ceiling tunnel of glass and windows. The encroaching view of the ship is overwhelming. It towers over every building in its wake, making everything around it look like a child's toy.

Ahead, the crowd thins out into a line. Metal detectors and bag screenings attempt to weed out the extra-curricular items brought onboard by hopeful vacationers, and the guy in front of Mickey ends up having three bottles of vodka confiscated from his satchel. Ian and Mickey share a surprised look as the older, stockier man marches after the security guy, protesting loudly. Good thing they decided to leave the weed at home.

The line continues around the corner of the tunnel, before coming to a halt.

“The fuck is goin' on here," Mickey says to nobody in particular, and Ian cranes his head to get a good look at the reason for the hold up.

It looks to be some kind of photography set up: professional photos on a tacky backdrop, available for purchase once aboard the ship. Ian relays the information to Mickey, who just rolls his eyes.

Luckily, there isn't a long wait.

“Step through," the photographer says promptly to them when they reach the front of the line. They're guided to stand in front of a badly photoshopped sunset-painted backdrop. The photographer sidesteps back around his tripod and lighting rig and gestures for Ian and Mickey to get closer.

Mickey folds his arms, and Ian shuffles in towards him.

“You're on holiday, lovebirds," the photographer reminds them, “at least try to look relaxed, yeah?"

Ian swallows loudly.

Mickey unfolds his arms, clearly unhappy with being told what to do. He visibly hesitates, before snaking a hand around Ian's waist, pulling him in closer. His fingers are warm through the thin layer of Ian's shirt, and as he curls into Ian's side, all Ian can smell is the deep, woody scent of Mickey's favourite perfumed soap. Gingerly, he puts an arm around Mickey's shoulders, and because he's already pushing his fucking luck, he leans over, resting the edge of his jaw against Mickey's temple. 

“Lovely, absolutely lovely," the photographer says languidly, like he's said it a million times before, before ducking again and adjusting the camera lens.

“Alrighty. Wow, what a gorgeous couple you are! Step a little to the left - yeah, there you go, just there - now, lovebirds, how about a kiss for the camera -,"

Mickey's brows are as high as Ian's ever seen them.

“Fuck off," he snaps forcefully, pouncing forward to the photographer like he's ready for a fight. “Mind your own fucking business, asshole, before I come over there and tear _you_ a new asshole, you -,"

Ian cuts him off, shoving Mickey in the ribs, pushing him off the backdrop towards the ship doors.

“Sorry," he calls out to the photographer as he grunts from the weight of Mickey's stocky resistance. “Public - displays - of - ungh, fuck _off_, Mickey - affection. You know how it is."

But the photographer could care less, already having moved on to the next group behind them.

“Hey," Ian calls after Mickey, who's stormed off ahead. He jogs to catch up. “Hey, what the fuck was that about?"

“Fuck that guy," Mickey spits out as he starts to pace. He brings a thumb to his lips, agitated. “Jerkoff thinks he knows us - _lovebirds, how about a kiss for the camera_ \- I'll tear his fuckin' ears off -,"

Mickey grunts as Ian hits him in the shoulder. “Calm the fuck down, would you? Jesus, Mick. It's not gonna be all the time, but sometimes we're just gonna have to pretend we're a couple, there's no getting round it. Not if we want to drink ourselves stupid and steal shit from -," he drops his voice as a group passes them, “- steal shit from dumbass rich people."

It's a low blow, Ian knows it, and it's not like he's expecting Mickey to _kiss_ him or anything, but he can't go around threatening to kill everyone who insinuates he might be the slightest bit gay. It kind of defeats the whole purpose of pretending to date Ian to get all the free shit.

Mickey squares his jaw, his eyes flicking over to Ian. _God, he looks like such a pitbull sometimes,_ Ian thinks. He hates how hot Mickey is when he's angry.

“Fine," he snaps. Then, slightly calmer. “Fine."

Silent, mostly fuming, they walk down the final stretch of the glass corridor.

“- but I'm not holding your fuckin' hand," Mickey warns, as though he's finishing a sentence Ian never heard him start.

Ian snorts. “Who says I want to hold your stupid hand, anyway," he replies. 

It's an outright lie.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

The atrium of the _Pride at Sea_ is some next level rich fucker shit. There's a fancy looking bar off to the side, edging the large, open dance floor sprawled out in the center. At the helm is a grand staircase, three decks tall, adorned with craftsman gold plated handrails that swirl with all the grace of the _Titanic_. Hanging high on the ceiling is a chandelier, framing the staircase and dance floor in a sweeping, tiered crescent-moon shape. There must be over a thousand crystals in that thing, Ian thinks, watching as it twinkles like a disco ball, the light refracting softly on the gathering crowd of cruise-goers beneath. 

Ian feels Mickey pack in closely beside him, the crowd coming together as they're herded towards a group of mostly uniformed figures standing on the staircase. The murmurs around them quieten down as one of the figures moves forward and a voice booms loudly over the speakers: 

“Welcome to the _Pride at Sea_!" 

Ian shifts onto the balls of his feet - Mickey, beside him, slouching, having given up on seeing shit - to get a better look at the man behind the microphone. The man looks as though no-one told him that Ska died over a decade ago. Well-groomed sideburns, cleanly pressed Hawai'ian shirt open at the throat, Ian can see the bottom of his long white socks and vans if he cranes his neck.

“My name is Ben and I'll be your Entertainment Director for the next seven days! On behalf of the captain and crew here at the _Pride at Sea_, we'd like to-,"

“Jesus Christ, that thing would be worth at least half a mill', easy," Mickey says under his breath, nudging Ian to look up at the chandelier.

Ian grins. “Bit of a heist, even for us."

Mickey chuckles.

\-----

Before too long, they're directed towards their rooms. The elevators behind the staircase are packed like tins of sardines, so Ian and Mickey take the grand staircase two at a time to reach their floor. Their information sheet says _533, Portside Aft_, which could be an alien language for all Ian knows.

“All these fuckin' hallways look the same," Mickey groans as they make their way down the wrong hallway for the third time.

“Yeah," Ian laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, the good news is, if we go down all of them, we're bound to find it eventually."

Mickey points to the nearest cabin door. “This says 464. What the fuck. We're not even close."

They make their way up a staircase and down another two wrong hallways before they finally find their cabin, their bags waiting patiently for them out front. Room 533.

“Oh, I get it!" Ian says finally, the map part of the pamphlet spilling out over his hands. “The five stands for floor five, room thirty-three."

Mickey snorts. “Good, well, hope you can remember that Gallagher, 'cause I sure ain't gonna."

Mickey takes the lanyard from his pocket - (_“You do know that's meant to go around your neck, right?" Ian had told him not an hour before. Mickey had rolled his eyes. “And risk looking as gay as the rest of you? Yeah, no thanks."_) and swipes the card on the lock. With a small beep, the light flashes green, and Mickey opens the door to their cabin.

It's small, but comfortable. Over the far side is a door leading out to a balcony. Next to the front door is the clothes rack and en-suite, compact enough to fit a shower, toilet and sink within the same five foot cube. The curtains in the place are all sailor themed, including the small one situated over the porthole, and -

“One bed." Mickey says.

Ian frowns. 

It looks like it's queen sized, at least. At the foot, someone's turned their towels into swans.

Mickey stares at Ian, who is trying desperately not to flush red under the thought of sharing a bed with Mickey fucking Milkovich.

“I'm sleeping on the floor," is all Mickey says. He dumps his gym bag on the ground between the bed and bathroom door before making his way outside to the balcony. 

_Keep it together, Ian,_ he tells himself as he gingerly places his bag down next to Mickey's. He takes a seat on the other side of the bed, facing the balcony, and runs a hand through his hair.

It's only a week at sea, he reminds himself, and it'll be a lot of fun hanging out with Mickey. It always is. Ian seems to be the only person capable of taking Mickey at face value, warts and all, which is why - he thinks, anyway - he's the only person that's stuck around for so long. They've been through some serious shit together: juvie, running away, Ian's diagnosis, dealing with their shit-for-brains excuses of fathers. Save for Lip, Mickey's had Ian's back longer than anyone, and Ian would do anything for Mickey if he asked. 

Not that Mickey had to know that. 

Through the window, Ian can see Mickey leaning over the rail, probably trying to get a good look at the side of the boat. His jet black hair is slicked back, shaved smoothly at the sides, the wind from the air outside threatening to mess it up. He looks so good that Ian can hardly stand it. Mickey's wasted no time at all, lit cigarette already in hand as he turns to look up to the top of the boat.

_It's only a week,_ Ian repeats to himself. A week in confined quarters, spending every hour of every day with the boy he's been in love with since third grade.

Ian is so, terribly, and utterly _fucked_.

\------

The first port of call for any good cruise go-er is to find the best watering hole. Or, at least, that's what rule number four says in their '_Welcome Aboard!_' package. __

Mickey proclaims that the third bar they come across is the best one. 

It's an intimate, cozy room, decked out in black and gold like some reimagined jazz club from the twenties, splattered with velvet booths and bar stools all facing an empty stage. It hardly seems Mickey's style in decor, but the dimmed lighting gives the place such a wicked-cool vibe. 

“We haven't seen the other four, Mick," Ian points out, but Mickey doesn't stick around to hear it - he's already off to the sleek looking black and gold bar at the back of the room, lanyard in hand, ready to start taking advantage of the whole free alcohol part of the deal. 

Ian finds a tall table with two bar stools for the both of them and watches as Mickey brings back two fruity drinks with pink umbrellas in them. 

Ian stares down at it, then, at Mickey. 

“Pina Colada," Mickey says by way of explanation, clearly pleased with himself, and takes a long drink from the curved glass, straw be damned. Ian picks the umbrella out of his own and sets it on the table. 

Well, when in Rome. 

\------

It doesn't take long for other cruise-goers to find the jazz club. Some seem to already know the place, having regular orders at the bar, chatting to the waitstaff like they're old friends. It's a bit weird.

More than half the people in the room seem to have some familiarity with the cruising experience in general; the easy exchange of lanyard for drink, lanyard for bar snacks. More than half the people in the room also seem to have two decades of, uh, _life-experience_, on them, too. Ian can't help but feel young - far younger than the twenty-one his forged ID claims he is.

Reflecting on it all, and yeah, maybe he's hoping to find a bit of a different scene, Ian suggests to Mickey that they get a wriggle on and explore what the rest of the ship - and the other bars - have to offer, but Mickey, as stubborn as Milkoviches are, decides that the pineapple and coconut-ty goodness of the drinks are worth staying for.

Well, that, and the people watching.

“He's punching way above his league, there," Mickey says a bit too loudly as a young couple walk into the bar, hand in hand. One looks like an underwear model, his perfectly coiffed hair as golden brown as his tan. The other is specky: lean, scruffy, and all limbs. The underwear model is exactly the type of guy Ian would have gone for back in his thirst-filled Justin Timberlake days.

“Shut up, they can probably hear you," Ian says quietly through a half-laugh. Staring after them, he moves the straw around the bottom of the glass, finishing his drink with a slurp.

“So?" Mickey retorts. "Let them. I can take 'em."

Suddenly, with a lurch, the ship - and everyone on it - moves with a heaving groan, the engine firing up some half-dozen decks below, making the various bottles atop the bar chatter like cold teeth. The table starts to vibrate beneath them, shuddering with every motion the ship makes. 

“What the fu -," Mickey starts.

With a long, loud blare from the foghorn somewhere outside, Mickey is completely drowned out. He opens his mouth again once the horn falters, but is cut off straight away by a voice appearing over the loudspeakers. Introducing himself again as Entertainment Director Ben, the announcement is made that the _Pride at Sea_ has officially left the dock and is starting its voyage out to sea. 

“ - not long now until we leave the port and the real fun begins!" the voice crackles over the speakers. “Please refer to your _Welcome Aboard!_ packages for all the information on the entertainment available on board over the coming week, as well as dining times for the buffet and our many other wonderful restaurant experiences -,"

The movement of the boat is relentless. Chugging along like a car struggling to start, the vibrations through the tables and glasses start to make Ian's head hurt a little. 

“- should be out to the wide open sea in just a few minutes, folks -"

“Is it gonna be like this the whole time?" Mickey asks, trying to hold back the slight panic in his voice.

“I don't know," Ian replies truthfully. 

“Aw, Christ," Mickey says. He downs the rest of his drink, setting his glass back down with a bit too much force. “This fuckin' sucks. I'm getting another one."

\------

Somehow, the ship's movements only get worse. Graduating from the relentless vibrations of the motoring engine into a long, never-ending see-saw: the room tilts to one side, then back to the other, slow and queasy and Ian's sure as hell that these Pina Coladas aren't helping at all.

An hour in, food isn't even an option. Ian's sure they're serving some kind of deliciousness at the dining hall, wherever the _fuck_ that is, but any hunger he may have once felt is only replaced with a lingering nauseousness caught somewhere at the base of his throat. 

Mickey doesn't look much better. He's pale. Paler than usual. 

“I hate boats," is all he says. As bile rises further into his mouth, Ian couldn't agree more.

He's about to suggest that the two of them somehow find their way back to their room and dig into that stash of of sea-sickness bags on the bathroom sink, when a familiar voice cuts into the thought from over Ian's shoulder:

“Glad to see you've already found out where we keep the alcohol!"

Ian swings around, only to be greeted by the cheesy and somewhat shit eating grin of Entertainment-Director-And-Ska-Founding-Father Ben. He looks younger than Ian remembers seeing - far too young to be so enthusiastic about making a career out of cruising. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Ben sticks a hand out for Ian to shake, and before he knows it, Ian's hand is caught in a bruising and purposeful handshake.

“Yeah," Ian says after a moment, swallowing loudly, still trying to catch up with the sudden appearance. “Thanks."

Ben's grin seems to be permanent. “Entertainment Director Ben, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher. Heard a lot about you. Well, you and your brother. Enthusiastic lad. Mark said you sounded like a great representative for the newcomer experience to cruising."

“Mark?" Mickey asks, jutting in, his eyes flicking over to Ian like he expects Ian to explain who the fuck _Mark_ is. Ian has no idea either, and gives Mickey a small shrug.

“Head of Events and Competitions," Ben explains, catching on, and it all starts to click into place. Mark must have been Amanda's family friend that gave Lip the tickets. 

“Mark," Ian says quickly. “Right! Yes, of course. Yeah, super happy to be here, thank you so much for setting this up for us."

Ben's gaze shifts over to Mickey, who's hand is holding his half-empty cocktail a bit too tightly. He watches Ben's eyes flick down to Mickey's knuckle tattoos, and Ian bites down on his lip to stop himself laughing.

“And this must be your boyfriend?"

Mickey stares at Ian like a deer in headlights.

“Uh," Ian says, blanking for a second. “Yeah, uh, Ben, this is my - uh, partner, Mickey."

Ben sticks a hand out for Mickey to shake, and Mickey takes it. He looks just as weirded out as Ian feels. 

“Pleasure," Ben says.

“Yah," is all Mickey replies with, deciding that now would be the best time to hide behind the other half of his drink.

Taking a breath, Ben turns back to Ian. “We'd love to interview you for a piece for our website," he starts, and Ian can tell this man means to get down to business.

“We're hoping you'll be able to give a newcomer's perspective into couples cruising," Ben continues, “and what that means for young gay people such as yourselves. It's a bit of a new market we're trying to break into, you see. Most of the serial cruisers we get are veterans to the experience, and, well, fresh perspectives can be a wonderful asset to the longevity of a company like us."

“Of course, we'll want your input too, Mickey. It wouldn't be a couples cruise without the couple!" Ben's laugh is awkwardly forced.

Mickey downs the rest of his drink. “Whatever, man," he says through a burp. Ben manages to hides his disgust at the sound rather well.

“It'll be the perfect promotional piece. An interview about your experiences on the cruise, a bit about you and your history, how you got together and all that jazz," Ben says, counting on his fingers as he lists everything. “Oh, and a photo, too, but we'll probably just use one from the photographer we have here on board. So, don't worry, you won't have to supply one yourselves." 

Ian can feel Mickey's eyes boring into him.

“Of course," Ian replies smoothly. Shit, shit shit shit, _shit_. 

“I'm sure we'll get lots of happy snaps throughout the cruise. You are coming to the end of cruise party night, right? White Night?" 

Fuck. _Fuck._

They have to dress in all white or some shit. Second-last night of the cruise or something, Ian remembers reading. White Night, what a joke of a name.

“Of course, we wouldn't miss it, would we, Mickey?"

The look Mickey gives Ian says, _I'm gonna fucking murder you._

“Fantastic," Ben confirms. “Well, I'll let you two get back to it - and remember, enjoy yourselves. I'll catch up with you later to see how it's all going. Anything you need, just let me know." He makes a point of saying it directly to Ian. Ben waggles his fingers as he steps away from their table, heading over to another table on the other side of the room to talk to a group of - what did Ben call them? - oh, serial cruisers.

“Well, he seems like an asshole," Mickey says matter-of-factly as he hops down out of his seat, glass in hand. “I'm getting another one of these things. Want one? I'm buyin'," he grins, clearly pleased with his own joke.

Ian's shakes his head, but his eyes trail after Mickey as he strides back to the bar. 

Fuck.

All of Ian's fears were coming true.

There's no getting round it: they were going to have to commit to this sham of a relationship if they didn't want to get kicked off the cruise for fucking _fraud_. Shit. The nauseous feeling swirling in the pit of Ian's stomach intensifies tenfold, and not just from the constant swaying of the ship.

Of course, Ian had considered that this could all go wrong. Horribly and terribly wrong. But if there's one thing the Gallaghers are good at, it's keeping it together under stress.

Okay, that's a lie, but Ian knows his priorities here, and finding a knife-edge balance between them was going to be the key to surviving the week:

Firstly, making sure that they don't get kicked off the boat for lying about being a couple and scamming them out of an all expenses paid trip-for-two, and secondly, keeping his friendship with Mickey in-tact. That in itself was worth more to Ian than any cruise ticket or free ride around the ocean. Ian just needs to make sure that Mickey will still talk to him at the end of the week, after it's all over, and everything will be fine.

Ian knows Mickey. He knows that Mickey's never really been boyfriend material. Not the hold-your-hand, take-you-to-the-movies, buy-you-flowers boyfriend type, anyway. It just wasn't in his DNA, and Ian isn't about to get Mickey to change his spots now. But maybe it didn't have to be as plain as all that. They needed some kind of cover story for the article (and in case Ben made good on his word and ever came poking around again), and sticking as close to the truth was going to be their best shot if they actually wanted to sell it.

Fuck. This was going to be so much harder than it needed to be. Acting like he was in love with Mickey without letting Mickey know that Ian was _actually_ in love with him? Fuck that. Falling for your straight best friend was not an experience that Ian would ever recommend.

“We have to come up with a cover story," Ian blurts out as soon as Mickey sits down.

Mickey eyes him critically. “A cover story?"

“Yeah, a cover story," Ian says. “For the interview."

“You mean we actually have to do that thing?" Mickey scoffs, and Ian presses his lips into a hard line, giving him a look.

“Alright, alright," Mickey says, holding his hands up. “Jesus Christ, okay." 

God, this would be so much easier if Mickey wasn't so emotionally constipated about everything ever. Ian's already half-formed an idea - met at school, friends for ages, Ian had a bit of a thing for Mickey long before Mickey ever really caught on. That much was true, at least. Maybe they would have skipped school to make out under the bleachers or something? He's not great on the details. But, sticking close enough to the truth was bound to be the best way of going about it - they _did_ meet at school, and they _do_ sneak off to hang out under the school bleachers. To smoke, mostly. With Mickey's piss poor acting skills, the people running this thing would pick up on their farce quickly if it were anything else. Staring at Mickey, who's busy thinking as he takes in his fifth drink, Ian doesn't know how to even start this conversation.

He clears his throat, but his voice gets caught on the way out. 

“Right, well, we met at school, yeah?" Mickey says, cutting over him. “So let's stick to that. And then we started bangin' under the bleachers instead of gym class or whatever, and the rest is history."

It's simple, matter of fact, and _exactly_ what Ian was thinking.

“It's gotta be convincing Mickey," Ian says quietly after a moment, finally finding his voice. "They'll probably kick us off the boat if they find out."

Mickey's blues meet Ian's greens, and there's a moment of hesitation, of acknowledgement, of sheer panic of what could happen to them. It feels better having Mickey on the same page, now, though, but Ian's so very shit scared of how badly this could go if Mickey were to ever find out how deep Ian's feelings _actually_ went.

"Sounds like a good cover," Ian starts, his voice a bit shaky. He gives a small smile as Mickey raises his eyebrows, grinning, smug, almost as if to say, _yeah, I know. _

"Only," Ian says, meeting Mickey's eye, "dumb as you are, I'm not sure if they'll believe that you've ever really been to school."

Mickey continues drinking, unperturbed, and flips Ian off.

\------

They head back to their room after Mickey has a few more rounds, thankfully only managing to get lost on their own floor this time. The constant swaying of the boat does nothing to ease the sickness they feel in their stomachs. Back in the safety of their own room, Ian ends up throwing up the pitiful amounts of the airline snacks and alcohol left in his system.

“We should probably eat somethin'," Mickey says as Ian flops down on the bed with a groan. He feels kind of shaky, and even though his stomach doth protest, he knows that Mickey's right. He has to take food with his pills, at the very least.

The sun has started setting on the horizon by the time the boys snake their way up to the topmost deck of the ship, the sky marrying shades of purple, gold and orange together like a postcard. The dull thud of bass-heavy music is what reaches them first. They wind their way past two separate pools and a water-park, the sound of bass getting louder, finding a smattering of people sliding around a dance-floor with a neon sign above them flashing '_SAILAWAY PARTY_'. It looks like the party's barely started, but they manage to skirt around the edges of it anyway before coming to a set of large, double doors with the words '_Dining Hall_' printed in big, golden block letters above it.

Inside, it's fucking _huge_.

It looks like it takes up the back third of the ship. Chairs and tables are spread out like a sea of tiny little islands, completely surrounding a block of ten - no, twelve? - serving stations and carveries smack bang in the center of it all. Each bench has its own shop-front theme, its own cuisine, its own smell, every aspect of it overwhelming the senses. The one thing each station has in common is the blackboard atop each bench, the specials for each cuisine neatly written in white chalk. Drinking in the splendour, Ian feels his empty stomach finally rumble.

“Wow," Mickey breathes. Ian looks over at him, their eyes meeting, lighting up with joint excitement.

“Meet you back here?" Ian says, and Mickey nods, before they peel off in different directions, each starting at a different end of the station block.

\------

Ian watches as Mickey pulls his plate in closer and picks up the leg of something barbecued. Grease is starting to drip down the sides of his hands and he has some kind of marinade sauce splattered all over his lower lip, but in all their time together, Ian doesn't reckon he's ever seen Mickey look so happy about a goddamn meal before.

Ian's opted for a big bowl of some kind of clear noodle soup. There's slices of meat and half a boiled egg and the layers of spice and broth make it all taste fucking amazing. Pulling twin orange bottles of anti-psychotics and mood-stabilizers out of his pocket, Ian takes one of each and pops them in his mouth, washing them down with a glass of water.

They finish up their second servings of food before starting on dessert. They both get large helpings of chocolate pudding, digging their way through a third shared plate between them.

“Holy fuck," is all Mickey manages to say as he throws his fork down on the table. Ian makes a muffled noise of agreement, leaning far back in his chair to give his bodily organs space to process the consumed feast.

They sit in silence for a while, processing, digesting. It's fascinating, watching everyone around them. So many people here look at home, eating, drinking, conversing and laughing with their loved ones. It's kind of nice, Ian thinks. With everything available to them, it's no wonder people get hooked on the lifestyle. He looks over at Mickey, who's busy picking lumps of chocolate pudding out of his teeth and staring out the back window of the dining hall. He wonders how the two of them look, together, staring in from the outside. Would people believe they were a couple? 

“Wanna go see what that party's all about?" Ian asks after a moment, and Mickey licks his teeth, before shifting his gaze from the window back to Ian.

“Yeah," he says, and with a scrape of their chairs, they make their way back out onto the deck, the cold night air now greeting them instead of a warm sunset.

\-----

Ian's well-versed in club culture.

Having shifted around to a few different clubs during his time in Boystown, he recognizes the face of debauchery when he sees it; and watching the lechery of sweaty men on the dance floor, grinding on each other like it's their last night on Earth, Ian _sees_ it. He and Mickey hang on the edge, having scored themselves a tall bar-table to stand and stay watch at. The bass from the club music thumps loudly, practically vibrating through his ribcage, and for a brief moment, Ian wonders how different he'd be if Mickey weren't here right now; likely splayed out in the middle of it, utterly blown out, waiting and watching and hungry for someone to fuck and get fucked by. 

The sky above is midnight blue, almost black, but the pinks and greens and golds of the lights on the dance-floor illuminate the space like Ian's back in one of the clubs; the hot, sweaty press of bodies upon bodies radiating out from the floor, dancing and grinding and oh, fuck.

Ian has half a mind to tear his clothes off and head straight in there.

He sees a familiar coif of golden hair on the edge of the floor closest to them. The underwear model, from before - the one he'd seen in the jazz club. Behind him, the gangly kid, trying his best to grind on him, all hips and awkward jutting movements. Ian licks his lower lip involuntarily as the Adonis locks eyes with him, honing in, beckoning him out for a dance like he's the siren to Ian's sailor. He watches as the model moves closer to the guy behind him, rolling his body like some kind of obscene movie, making sure that Ian watches his every move - _sees_ every sway, every grind. Ian can see the sweat dripping down his bare chest, disappearing into the line of his golden shorts as he bends slightly backwards, his head dropping onto the other guys shoulder, and oh, _god_.

Fuck, it's hot out here.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Mickey looking at out at the party, completely lost. His eyes are slightly unfocused, adrift in a far away thought.

Ian hesitates for a second, biting his lip, and idly wonders if he should say something - maybe check in with Mickey, ask him what he's thinking. Taking in Mickey's withdrawn look, he decides against it. Mickey would just get defensive, anyway, and complain about Ian being all weird. Again. 

Instead, he lets his gaze wander back to the crowd, to where the golden boy is - or, uh, was. Ian's eyes snake around, scanning, but in the few seconds he looked away, somehow, the underwear model had slipped further into the center of the crowd. 

Ian shifts on the table, and the movement seems to snap Mickey out of whatever moment he was having. Mickey stares at Ian for a second, before averting his gaze back to the dance floor -

\- and the golden boy pulls his way back to the edge of the space, his eyes locking straight back in on Ian, his intensity unabashedly unwavering and holy fuck. He doesn't take his eyes off Ian, not even for a second. Ian swallows loudly and idly wonders how much Mickey would hate him if he left to go and join in on the fun.

But Mickey's now leaning forward on his elbows, staring at Ian like he's a particularly difficult puzzle that he's trying to solve. It makes the hairs on the back of Ian's neck start to prickle. Peeling his eyes away from the golden boy, Ian gives Mickey a questioning look, but Mickey shifts his gaze, flexes the muscles in his jaw. Ian doesn't entirely know what to make of it, but he supposes Mickey's probably just uncomfortable with how hard Ian's been thirsting.

_ _When he thinks about it, Mickey's never been with Ian to a gay club, or to any of his workplaces in Boystown. Or really even heard much about Ian's occasional flings, his affair with Kash in the back aisle of the store. Ian supposes the only reason Mickey's never been uncomfortable with any of _this_ before is because Ian never really gave him the chance to. _ _

__

__

“I'm heading back," Mickey says loudly over the music, and Ian turns to look at him. He won't quite meet Ian's eye. Ian gives one last look to the model guy on the edge of the dance floor, who has _not_ taken his eyes off Ian for one second, before pushing off the table and giving Mickey a nod in acceptance. 

_He's probably had enough for one day,_ Ian tells himself as he follows Mickey back inside, towards the staircase. _And fair enough, too,_ Ian concludes. Roles reversed, if Ian were straight, he probably wouldn't want to watch Mickey thirst over sweaty men at a gay club, either. 

\-----

Opening the cupboard doors, Mickey pulls out a couple of pillows and the pile of extra blankets. Shaking them out, he lays them in a haphazard pile on the floor between the bed and balcony door, fluffing up the pillows as he arranges them to create a crudely-made bed. 

Ian's pretty tired, all things considered. He's coming down from the high of the atmosphere upstairs, and the long day of travel is finally starting to catch up with him. He watches as Mickey potters around the room, grabbing the last of things for his makeshift nest, and Ian bites his lip, the knot of anxiety in his stomach twisting further. He wants to offer Mickey the other side of the bed, build a wall out of pillows to separate them if he has to, but Mickey's got his mind made up, and Ian doesn't want to make it weird. Doesn't want Mickey to know he's soft. Their room is the one place they don't have to act, and Ian's not going to push his luck, not with him. He can't say any of the things that he wants to, so he grits his teeth and changes into a grey sleep-shirt and boxers in the bathroom before pulling himself into bed. 

As Mickey lays down in his pile of blankets, wriggling under the covers, Ian props himself up on his elbow, peering down at Mickey, who's now flat on his back with his elbows behind his head. 

“Y'know, this kinda reminds me of that summer you stayed over," Ian says through a small smile.

Mickey grins, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes. “Yeah," he breathes. He stares at the ceiling, the look on his face hardening slightly.

Ian rolls onto his back and pulls the covers up to his chin. He remembers it well. They'd managed to patch up the old holey air mattress for him and shoved it under the desk next to Ian's bed. It had taken a while for the others to get used to it, Mickey practically living with them and all, but by the end of the summer, Mickey was leaving the house with the same brown paper bag packed-lunch that the rest of the Gallaghers used.

“My dad was a real piece of shit to us that year," Mickey says quietly. “Kinda glad you took me in, y'know? Dunno where I would have gone if you'd've said no."

It's the most vulnerability Ian's ever heard from Mickey.

Ian's breath stills.

He can hear Mickey shift uncomfortably on the floor beside him.

“I'd do it all over again, Mick," Ian says softly, staring ahead at the ceiling. “You're family."

Mickey doesn't say anything back, but that's okay. Ian rolls over quietly and turns out the light, and when sleep finally takes him, he dreams of the black haired boy on the floor beside him.


End file.
